


The Son of Badakhshan’s Tiger

by Dxmjunkie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-20
Updated: 2014-02-20
Packaged: 2018-01-13 05:31:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1214527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dxmjunkie/pseuds/Dxmjunkie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John runs into an old war buddy from Afghanistan- a person he thought was dead. An American hacker comes aboard a new serial kidnapping case; one that has Sherlock sitting back while John does the field work. An ominous note appears: To the son of Badakhshan's Tiger, meet Hamidra at Xim Xio Xiou. </p>
            </blockquote>





	The Son of Badakhshan’s Tiger

**Author's Note:**

> “No greater love hath a man than he lay down his life for his brother. Not for millions, not for glory, not for fame. For one person, in the dark where no one will ever know or see.” -J. Michael Straczynski 

Chapter One: Kashim

I. 

Location: The Providence of Hilmagistan, Afghanistan 

“You must live, Kashim,” Rien is reiterating faintly against his non-injured shoulder. 

Tears are pouring down her ashen cheeks as her head absently sways from side to side. Her helmet is still firmly tucked under her chin, her gear weighing her down as she loses strength. She clutches at her bloody belly, trying to put pressure of the wound, knowing it’s a futile endeavor.  The bullet hit her at a shallow angle, but the pain is excruciating. The liquid looks almost black against her standard issue gloves.

A sound emits from deep in her throat, a noise of despair and resignation. The air cracks with gunshots, Arabic being shouted from across the gathering, none of the words recognizable. 

John scans the permitter and pulls her arm, tackling her into the space between the crates of ammo and the cool metal of a storage bin. He grunts as his shoulder throbs, at least the bullet didn’t knick his subclavian artery. He’d be dead already if it had. 

John slowly drops with her to the ground in a crumpled pile, his body curled protectively around her as he helps her put pressure on the wound also. He takes a breath- damn, no, two bullet holes he realizes. Both of his hands come away bloodied as he shouts into his comm unit, no response. Spotty reception.

The shouts of Arabic are receding; the guerrillas are piling into stolen trucks and taking off without clearing the tent. Not good. Very not good. 

Rien is weakly shoving at him, telling him that the mobile bomb will be detonating shortly. As if he didn’t know that. There isn't time. Hell, he wasn't going to leave her here. 

“No, Rien, no,” John is chanting, sweat clamming his hands as he struggles with the straps of her gear, binding a makeshift tourniquet. “We came to this god forsaken country as a team; we’ll leave as a team!” 

Wasn't that the sort of bullshit you heard on a bad telly show, John notes frantically. 

Rien brings her hand to his cheek, stilling him, giving her best smile that made her dimples show. “We both know that’s a lie. Only one of us is gonna leave here.”

She closes her eyes as her head thunks against the ammo cases, “Go.”

“I won’t.” Kashims’ ‘Captain’ voice is firmly in place. Rien huffs, vision blurry when she opens her eyes to glare at him without malice.

Stubborn man.

“You have-“ she groans, “You must live. The last of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.” 

“I could carry you,” John motions to do so, but he sounds doubtful of his own ability. 

“Not with that bullet in your shoulder you can’t,” she tells him, voice losing its harshness as she continued bleeding onto the sand. Rien takes a few deep breathes, they both know that their time is dwindling second by second. She is going to die. 

“Give me your name before I go.” She instead pleads. “Fucking codenames. I don’t want to take a false identity with me to the other side.” 

“It’s John.” His voice doesn’t sound like his own. “Doctor John Hamish Watson.” 

“I think… I like Kashim better. Hmm.” Her eyes are glazed as she muses.

Rien coughs weakly, “Thank you for telling me. Now run, live, GO!” 

She starts shouting in his ear, pushing his arms away from her and deliberately smarting his gun wound. He can hear the countdown sequence to the bomb slowly tick in his head. If he doesn’t leave now…

John is nearly delirious with his own pain, he knows Rien was fatally wounded with that last attack… But he can’t carry her to safety… 

Still, it slaughters him inside to leave her alone to die. The last thing he sees is her brave smile, gun clenched between her fingers. 

John runs. And runs. And runs. 

A few meters out he hears the explosion. The bomb detonated, as per the guerrillas plan. Rien is dead. He can’t look back, he can’t think about that.  

It’s just before dawn. The sky is slowly turning from black to the softest shades of blue. He doesn’t know what direction he’s heading. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do when he gets there. He runs.  

Forty minutes later he collapses in a quiet alley of bumfuck Afghanistan. If he is found it’s likely he’ll be turned over to the Taliban. Tortured. Eventually murdered. He knows he should get back to his feet, find the Embassy. Do something. Anything.

But he can’t. He’s too weak. 

Just as the sun peaks across the horizon John opens his mouth to quietly plead:

“Please god, let me live.”

He closes his eyes and thinks that the sky has never looked prettier. 

Hour later he finds himself still alive. He doesn’t know how or why but he’s alive in a small military hospital. They are rambling information off at him as if he isn’t a Doctor himself. Ballistics came by to personally give him their report. He’s going to be discharged, sent home. Injured, feeling disgraced. Rien is dead and he couldn’t save her. 

The sun in the desert is disgustingly hot. John sits at the end of his cot and stares at the heat radiating outside the window. An oven. He’s going home. Back to civilian life. He won’t be a soldier anymore. 

He chuckles at the irony; he's not sure if he should be grateful for surviving or chagrined that his life was over the moment the bullet hit him. 

II. 

Location: London, England

“You know you can stay with me,” Harry informs him over lunch. “Clara’s room… it's empty now, anyway.” 

John is toying with the cell phone she's given him. His sisters number, and his therapists, are the only he currently has plugged in. 

It’s her version of a kind gesture, though John knows well that they would kill each other within a week of living together. Despite sharing several sequences of DNA, the siblings are truly too different to remain in close quarters. 

“Don’t worry ‘bout me, Harry, I’ll find a flatmate somewhere in London. My… therapist told me it's best if I don't live alone. Er, anyway.” 

“It’s not that easy, Johnny, to find someone willing to put up with PTSD.” His sister points out, her chopsticks resting against her lower lip. She's not trying to sound malicious but John is tempted to make a nasty retort. 

He looks out the window instead at the bleak London sky, not able to refute the words. 

“Don’t I know it.” 

The next afternoon he runs into an old chap he used to know way back when. They sit on a bench for coffee.

III. 

“The name’s Sherlock Holmes.” This man who is like a tornado tells him, standing in the mortuary of Bart’s. “The address is 221B Baker street.” 

IV. 

John wakes up, gasping, his skin slicked with sweat and for a moment he can smell the blood and sand of Afghanistan. He can feel the pounding throbbing pain in his shoulder. Can taste the metallic spit on his tongue. His trigger finger on his right hand twitches. He rolls to his side and places bare feet upon the hardwood of the floor.

Pressing the palms of his hands to his wet face he consciously resists the urge to grab for his gun hidden in the dresser beside his bed. He hasn’t dreamt about that in a while. 

It's still dark. His electric clock tells him that it's just past 5:30. His room is hushed, tidy.

After a moment of breathing he hears Sherlock moving around downstairs, probably didn't sleep last night. John mused, Sherlock had been playing violin until he’d fallen asleep. He’d been bastardizing Pachelbel’s canon for the last few evenings since they hadn’t had a case. If John concentrated he could still smell the smoke from whatever experiment Sherlock had blown up two nights ago. 

That, if nothing else, made him fiercely reaffirm that this was indeed reality and the nightmare had been just that, a nightmare. He wouldn't have put up with the shit that Sherlock threw at him from anyone else back when he was in the military. 

John calmed down. Figures that he's not going back to sleep, so might as well go to the loo, shower and get ready.  After wrapping his dressing gown around himself and glancing into the mirror he steels himself. And really, what did it matter? Sherlock would easily deduce him anyway, as if the words were tattooed across his forehead. 

John pads down the steps. He might as well make tea, feed Sherlock some biscuits, and check his email. Nothing remarkable, but never boring either. 

“We’ve got a case! Lestrade just emailed me.” Sherlock shouts as he wanders into the sitting room. Sherlock's chin is tucked towards his cell phone, his attention clearly not on John. 

The consulting detective was probably fully aware of John’s nightmares but doesn’t deem that fact as something to mention aloud. Obvious, was what he would probably say. Or maybe he keeps his silence as a rare example of deference to his friend. One never knew with Sherlock.

John sighs, turns on the kettle. 

“Let me take a shower and we can go. Crime scene in the morning?” 

“No, the Yard. Lestrade wants us to speak with a two hackers whom brought a serial kidnapping case to light,” Sherlock is pacing around the room, “String of disappearances, all from different sides of the city. Ages between ten and fifteen, no noticeable characteristics between the children. Two boys and a girl.” Sherlock’s face hasn’t left his phone during this entire time. “Houses were locked, parents had checked on their children last between thirty and forty five minutes before they were taken."

“Hackers?” John asks incredulously. 

Sherlock plops onto his kitchen chair, phone finally clacking face down against the table, fingers steepled under his chin as if in prayer. He hums for a long moment, wrapped up in his mind palace. 

“Indeed. Females, from the tone of Lestrade’s voice. Young, under thirty. One of them is an American, or has spent a lot of time in America.”

“And how can you possible know that?” John sounds amused, affectionate. 

Sherlock smirks into his teacup. “When Lestrade sent me the message the IP it originated from was based in Canada. Only American’s use Canadian proxy servers. Idiots.” 

John rolls his eyes, “You and your weird thing about Canadians.”

Sherlock sweeps to his feet gracefully and heads toward his bedroom, “Take your shower. Be ready to depart in twenty minutes! Serial kidnappings, John, this is at least a six, maybe even a seven.” 

Never boring, John thinks, sipping his tea belatedly. 

V. 

John Watson does not believe in destiny or any of that rubbish. He doesn’t hold much stock in predetermined fate, either.

But sometimes, life just kind of fucks with you like that. 

VI. 

The cab ride down to the yard is uneventful. It’s clear and sunny, an ideal spring afternoon. The remaining remnants of his nightmare slides away easily. He feels the thrum of a new case. Sherlock grins at him, teeth gleaming, as if reading John’s thoughts. 

John throws some money at the driver and together he and Sherlock stride into the Yard like they have a thousand times before. 

After an exchange of witty barbs with Donovan and Anderson, Sherlock heads to Lestrade’s office. The door is closed so Sherlock, being Sherlock, barges in like he owns the place. John follows at his heel. 

VII. 

“Oh my!” The petite woman seated beside Lestrade’s desk shouts when they open the door. She bolts to her feet, voice high-pitched and slightly shaky, "You're ALIVE?" 

Sherlock stops. The detective looks startled by this strange reaction and opens his mouth to speak but John was already shoving past his arm, jaw dropped in disbelief. 

The next thing John knows Rien has bounced into his arms with a joyful exhalation, both bodies spinning around the minuscule office as her legs twine behind his hips. Her breath is hot on his cheek. He clutches her fiercely, unapologetically. 

John can practically feel Sherlock’s eyes on the back of his head, most likely trying to deduce who this girl was, but at that moment he didn’t care. 

He breathes deeply, letting her ankles lock behind his back, “Rien! I can't believe you're still alive!” 

“Kashim! Oh, Kashim! How are -you- real?” Rien nearly slurs the question she is speaking so quickly. After a moment she drops to her feet, taking a step away from him and staring into his eyes. Her gaze was tender, awed and delightfully happy. Her hands remain on either of his arms, a firm grip tethering him to reality. They stand silently, taking one another in for nearly thirty seconds. 

Neither seem to notice the sharp looks they are receiving from Lestrade and Sherlock.

“Last time I saw you, you were bleeding out in that fuckin’ Hilmagistanian hideaway and the relayed gone spotty and you’d just been shot, and then we were like a heartbeat away from getting blown up by that cell bomb." Rien whispers, hand cradling the shoulder which Sherlock knew to be disfigured and permanently scarred. "Shit, Kashim, what was it, then? Forty caliber S&W?” 

"Whatever it was dropped Kellen and Treys like the ISS into our atmosphere." She adds. 

John's smile drops at those words, shaking his head in negation, “Kelvin and Andres did the ballistics themselves and ran it as a M16A2. All decked out for the pony show.”

“What the fuck? No way! How did those civilians get a specialty assault gear? They had M9's, Kashim. Was it Amalgum again?"

Rien purses her lips and paces in front of him. "For one thing, where was Mithril in all this? For another, I thought they'd finished that sub! The Special Reports Division told us they'd be clear, and we both know that didn't happen. We'd have known each other was alive if not…” Rien demands, hesitating at the end of her impassioned rant. 

"Point one: that weaponry is stunningly common," John replies, voice muted, "Cheap. Good turnaround on the black market, 'specially through the Turks. Point two: Amalgam had nothing to wash his hands from, not after the tunnels OPs."

She pauses, “The SRD had a leak and purpose. They didn't want us to know there had been survivors after that mission. Oh my, I feel like I’ve seen a ghost.”

“You? Rien, you…” A dark expression flashes across John’s face as he stares down at her stomach. “You should be dead…”

They both let the unspoken remain. How sorry John was, and how Rien needn't forgive him because there was nothing to forgive.

“I know, I ought to be.” Rien affirms. “I crawled my ass outside of the spit zone. Dawn broke. The American’s showed up and saved the day- you know how much they get off on picking up poor dying soldiers from certifiable opium dens. Makes them feel all special and important.”

John snorts.  

Lestrade is unsure if he should clear his throat and almost does so when the girl lifts her shirt. The three men automatically have their eyes travel to her flat belly, which is marred by a twin set of scars. One neatly sewn shut and the other jagged and ominous. Bullet holes. 

“You stitched up this one from earlier… that afternoon,” Rien murmurs, gesturing to the smaller puncture wound. “But weather was sunny with a side of goddamn self-righteous Taliban. The American’s couldn’t get me to another trauma doc until 0800 of the following day, mild septicemia, the blood transfusion took nearly nine days.” 

“The second didn’t hit any organs?” John asks in wonder. 

Rien shakes her head again, “Nope. Damn streak of luck, that. And you, Kashim? You were obviously discharged, given the Victoria Cross I’d reckon, then what?”

“Crime-fighting in London, if you’d believe that.” 

Rien blinks, turning to Sherlock and Lestrade. “Oh, pardon, I didn't meant to blabber for so long, Detective Inspector Lestrade. Seeing Kashim again after all these years threw me for a loop.”

“Kashim?” Sherlock echoes, not repeats, as the word is clearly a question.

“My old military nickname.” John elaborates, a red tint flushing his cheeks. 

“I thought you were called Three Continents Watson.” Lestrade said.

She barks out a surprised laugh, “I’d forgotten that one. Though I suppose it shouldn’t be a surprise as I’d only earned your full name seconds before I nearly bled to death. ”

“I’d suppose not.” John replies balefully, still kicking himself over that decision. “McCormont always did like to keep it on a need-to-know basis.” 

“Kashim- Dr. Watson; Captain Watson; John! Haha, I’m Relena Hellencroft. AKA Rien Diem.”

“Your real name is Relena," John muses aloud. When he speaks again he sounds falsely polite and is bowing slightly at the waist.  "And please Ms. Hellencroft, call me John as I cannot do with such terribly inconvenient formalities.”  

Rien laughs, honestly chuffed. 

John glances back at Sherlock before he shakes his head, gaze suddenly serious as he turns to Rien, “Anyway, we can catch up later. Tell us what you know about this crime scene.”

She spins gracefully and pulls a laptop out of her small backpack. It’s a shiny silver Macbook and obviously well loved and cared for. 

“Well, my girlfriend is a hacker from Sweden, she hit upon this doing a deep-web search.” 

Rien explains that a hacker has been taking personal addresses from credit card accounts, scanning old receipts to find households with children around the age of ten. 

The DI takes over to state that the Yard had three separate cases of child abduction within the last twenty hours, presumably related. 

Lestrade calls Rien “Miss Relena" (who Rien thus requested for him to call her by her preferred identity). 

They then learn that the other hacker (Rien's girlfriend) is an American woman named Tessa. 

She enters the office dramatically as if they'd called for her, smelling of cigarette smoke and a sweet perfume. She looks young, around twenty-five, her hair cropped atop her head, spiked. She is wearing a tight shirt and even tighter leggings. She looks putout as she passes Rien a coffee.

“Coffee is this country is too expensive.” She huffs in Rien’s direction, ignoring the other three men in the room entirely. 

Rien grins good-naturedly, “Not everybody can live off that sugar-based java you drink. Anyway, Tessa, remember Hilmagistan?”

A dark look crosses Tessa’s face. “Of course I remember that mission. You nearly died. Gunshot wounds. Cell phone detonator. One of your wounds was stitched up by a military doctor of whom you were immensely fond. Kashim.” 

John looks bashful for a moment, “Jeez, Rien, is that what you say about me?”

Tessa looks over at John fully this time, her face picture-honest surprise. She then smiles, the expression splitting across her face without reservation. Sherlock stares, entranced. She marches forward and holds out her right hand.

“Rien thought you were dead,” Tessa states, as if that explains anything. They shake palms quickly, before Tessa continues, “Thank you very much, Dr. John Watson, for what you did. Rien says she would’ve died multiple times without you in the troop.” 

John sighs, “It’s really the other way around, actually.” 

“Is that so?” Tessa pulls back, pivoting, “You must be the infamous Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes, then.” 

“Infamous?” Rien asks, blankly. 

Sherlock nods at her sharply, looking miffed that it took this long for him to be included back into the conversation. The DI looks amused, however, they must get back on track. 

Lestrade steps forward, “Well now that we’ve all been introduced, maybe we should start working on the actual case?”

John clears his throat, shuffling towards Sherlock, “Of course. Sorry.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and huffs, “Three kidnappings thus far? John and I will go to the homes and investigate them.”

Tessa turns towards Lestrade, “I’m tracking the IP used by cell phones in that area within the last 48 hours. Once I hit a match I should be able to find the kidnapper’s phone and track him using a GPS.” 

Rien crosses her arms, “But most people know how to rig their phones and disable the chip. Especially if they don’t want to be found.”

“That may be, but if they use their Internet function on their phone they're as good as caught.” Tessa shrugs. 

Sherlock looks intrigued, and grudgingly impressed, “You can find people using their mobile browser?” 

Tessa opens her mouth to reply but John cuts her off with an exclamation. He stares at Tessa as if seeing her for the first time.

“You’re Haïdra! Bloody hell!”

Tessa laughs, “Haa! Haven’t been called that since Afghanistan.” 

Sherlock interjects, “What, now?”

“She’s famous in the military world!” John says, pointing his index finger vaguely but speaking towards Sherlock. 

He frowns at Tessa, "All the OPs teams wanted Haïdra on their intel. You’ve saved my life before with the work you did in Abu Simbel. Urzu 8.”

“Well, Urzu 1," Tessa sounds bemused. "That was a long time ago.”  

"You were dating Rien back then?" John asks, miffed.

"Not… really," Tessa deflects. Rien glares out the window. 

Lestrade frowns. Because, really? Hackers helping soldiers? “You knew of John from before?”

“Yes. He was in the same troop as Rien, and a brilliant soldier and doctor. A hero.” Tessa confirms. “I was working more with the Americans then, not the Brits, but I always took time to keep track with what the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers were doing. Damn reckless group, you lot were.”

“Hnnn. Well, um, we do need to get going.” John gestures weakly at the door, clearly looking uncomfortable at having his past and personal life exploding in front of Sherlock and Lestrade. 

“Er, kidnapped children sort of takes top priority and all that.” John finally says. 

Right before Sherlock sweeps out of Lestrade’s office, he stares down at Rien. She met his gaze unflinchingly, something not many people are able to do upon first meeting Sherlock. 

"What does the name Kashim mean?" 

John's jaw dropped and he raised he arms to protest. 

Rien sighs, hands on her hips, "It means something like 'Shooting Star.' An object which is the most brilliant in the hush of nighttime sky, flaring, fleeting, and scarily devastating."

John's lips purse silently.

"The name was given to him by an elder named Badakhshan," Rien continues. "John had saved his life on a routine scan of the city. He had stopped and administered care to this guy even when the Sarg was fuckin' livid at the insubordination.”

A strangled noise emits from the former soldier. Sherlock turned and stared down his flatmate. 

"He told me that," John pauses, hands firmly in his pockets. "Ackbar told me…"

A snort. John appears terribly self-conscious, almost timid. "He told me that I wouldn't die in the desert. He said-" 

"He said that John hadn't yet lived up to his purpose and he wouldn't die under the Afghan sky,” Rien explained. "That he was 'too big' for a place like this. John would find another life, a reincarnation… well, I guess that would be the best translation for the word he used.”

"Kutabar tu Kashim." John echoes unhappily, voice thick with nostalgia as he stares out Lestrade's window. 

"How didn't I know this?" Sherlock suddenly states, pouting in John's general direction.

John frowns at his shoes, "You can't deduce everything about everyone, Sherlock. Certainly not from reading old paperwork from when I was injured that your brother probably procured for you."

Sherlock stares at him. That considering, almost respectful look that he only usually gets when John’s being a conductor of light. "Indeed, not."

The silence that follows is awkward. 

VIII. 

It’s almost afternoon when the leave Scotland Yard. The sky is clear, crisp. 

Sherlock is sulking. He had no idea the things about John that he didn’t know. It made sense of course; he’d been in two tours of Afghanistan. So many years of his life spent before Sherlock met him. 

John is angry, boarding on furious. He’s happy to know Rien is alive and all that, but his own inadequacies have just been sharply slapped in his face. Tessa had called him a hero. Even though she knew that he’d abandoned Rien and done nothing to save her. Rien had saved herself, he'd been a coward.  

“Why did you ask Rien what the name meant and not me?” John demands huffily as they crowd into the back seat of a cab. Sherlock rattles off the address like it’s second nature. 

“Because you wouldn’t have told me the truth.” Sherlock states automatically, toying with his phone. 

“Sherlock, I know this is hard for your to understand, but sometimes, just sometimes, my personal life is not a Netflix movie to be viewed for your curiosity and amusement. I am not an experiment.”

They’ve had this conversation many times in various reiterations of the same words. 

“Netflix?”

“What? Oh, it's an online- never mind! Not the point, stop deflecting. If you want to know something about my past, you bloody ask me, not somebody else. If I don’t tell you then it’s not your business.” 

“You’ve never talk about it.” 

“Huh?” John stammers inelegantly, trying to not stay angry. 

“Tessa knew all about you from Rien, implying that she freely elaborates on your near death experience. She knew who you were without-“

“Tessa knew who I was anyway.”

“Don’t interrupt me.” The detective snaps. “She knew of you much more intimately through stories which Rien had obviously imparted. I deduced you toured in Afghanistan, that you’d seen violent deaths, that you enjoyed the adrenaline rush being a soldier afforded. Not the fact that when you were shot you were forced to leave a fellow comrade behind to die and had since not known of her being alive until today. You were undeniably happy when you and Rien spoke of your shared history, camaraderie and adventures together. Perhaps you are ashamed of your abandonment? Perhaps it's that you didn’t enjoy how the accident caused you to leave the world to which you were accustomed. You may have been unreasonably resentful.”

John’s face is flushing a glorious red. He’s furious. Absolutely furious. Hot shame is bubbling in his chest. He’s going to lose his temper. He can feel his fists clenching, can hear his ear drums popping. 

Sherlock either doesn’t notice or he is purposely goading John, “More likely shame, since you did win a Victoria Cross for your efforts yet even at military ceremonies you do not adorn your medals.”

“Enough.” John finally commands. His tone leaves no room for argument.

Sherlock’s eyebrow pops to his forehead, “Bit not good? Oh, really, John-“

“Stop the cab.” 

“Pardon?” Sherlock frowns placidly. 

John pounds on the glass separating them from the cab driver and his voice sounds ragged in his own head, he commands louder, “Stop the cab.”

“John-“

“No,” John snarls, “You wonder why people think you are a sociopath? A freak?”

Freak is a word which John has never spoken to Sherlock before. No, the detective recalls acutely, never, not referring to him. He’s heard the doctor defend him so many times to Donovan, Lestrade, Mycroft, anyone who would listen.

"I believe in Sherlock Holmes," He'd written in the blog shortly after the pool incident with Moriarty. "Even if people try to defame his character, I can attest that he can't just turn off the brilliance. This morning he told me the velocity of a sparrow which had hit our kitchen window by the wax stains on the glass. If you lived with him, you'd know. I'm his best friend and I hardly get what's going on in that funny mind of his." 

Sherlock realizes belatedly that he might have pushed a little too far this time. 

“This is why." John hisses. "You take a person's grief and shame and throw it in their face. You manipulate and deceive everyone around you, and you thrive on the fact that you never need lower yourself to our plebeian emotions."

John shoves the door open with his bad leg, "Fuck. You.”

Sherlock opens his mouth but John is already clambering out of the vehicle. Sherlock goes to join him but John nearly slams the door on his nose. He’s down the sidewalk without another word. 

IX. 

Sherlock arrives at the crime scene alone. He feels… unhappy. A bit overwhelmed. 

He meanders near the front door of the first home, ready to knock and sham his way to an interview… but he can't. His gloved hand hovers. Lowers. He takes a step back. He can't do this without John; doesn’t want to.

Pulling out his cell phone he dials Lestrade, holds the phone to his ear and waits.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade sounds alarmed, the consulting detective rarely calls him. He prefers to text.  

“Yes, Lestrade,” Sherlock replies briskly, “I need you to locate John using his phone.”  

“What? You guys got separated?” 

Easier to let him assume. “Yes.” 

“Alright then, Tessa’s still here and she heard you. She’s looking him up right now.” 

The phone is passed over, Tessa is obviously tying furiously on a keyboard while talking, “He’s about fourteen blocks away from you. At a park. Want the address?”

Hackers are certainly useful to have as an ally. 

Tessa tells him in no-nonsense tones which Sherlock appreciates for its sheer efficiency. He shuts his phone and slides it into his pocket, debating if he should walk to the location or get a cab. 

No, this needed to be dealt with immediately. Sherlock hails a cab. 

X.

John is sitting in the park. It’s a gorgeous day yet John seems oblivious, twitchy and melancholy. He has a steaming coffee perched between his legs and is staring blankly into the distance. 

Sherlock strides over, a shadow across John’s vision when he blocks the sun. He sits beside him uninvited. 

John’s jaw jumps a little, a sure sign that he’s still very, very angry. Sherlock doesn’t know what to say, he’s usually bad with words and sentiment. So he stays silent. 

“What are you doing?” John finally asks, glancing at him out of the corner of his eye. 

“Sitting beside you.” Sherlock answers immediately. 

John sighs at his coffee, “I thought you went to the crime scene.”

“I don’t really go anywhere these days without you,” Sherlock admits. “I need my… friend to help me.” 

“Friend.”  

“I’ve just got one,” Sherlock confirms.

“Me.” John snorts. “The crippled doctor slash ex-soldier who resents surviving.” 

“No, I was speaking about my flatmate; a strong and courageous conductor of light.” 

John runs his hands roughly through his short hair, not sure if pity is making Sherlock compliment him or if he genuinely feels that way.

“You can’t… Sherlock- you can’t just deduce me like you would a stranger.”

“You are not an experiment.” Sherlock nods. To John the words sound condescending. “You’re allowed to your privacy.” 

“…” John waits to see if Sherlock will continue. A bird chirps in the distance. 

“I sometimes let it slip my mind,” Sherlock begins carefully, tucking his chin to his chest as though treading on eggshells, “That you’ve had a full life before you met me. For all I know about you here, now, there is so much you’ve never told me. Not just about the military.”

“I don’t know much about you from before either.” Join points out. “Except that you were a drug user who got clean.”

“I’d tell you anything if you asked me,” Sherlock admits quietly. “I don’t have any secrets from you.” 

John didn’t seem to know what to think of that. He's had so many things that he’d wanted to ask Sherlock, to get a straight response about, but for the life of him he can’t remember any right off the top of his head. He takes a sip of his coffee, scowling in distaste. He should’ve gotten tea, but he’d ran into the first shop he’d come across and ordered the largest coffee just to calm his frazzled nerves.  

“How did you find me? You haven’t got a bug on me, have you?”

“Lestrade assumed we got separated. Tessa located you.” 

John clears his throat, glancing at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. “You were… right again, as usual. I was ashamed of leaving Rian behind to die. And angry that I was discharged.”

He finally looked at Sherlock head-on, slightly uneasy, “For a long stretch of time I was so alone it physically hurt. It was like barely living. Things weren’t bad, I suppose, just… blank. Then I met you. And the pain… the shame, rather, and all that rubbish just sort of went away.”

“The buzzing noise stopped and you could finally think clearly.” Sherlock reiterates, knowingly.

“Yeah.” 

“I won’t apologize for telling the truth.” Sherlock quips, randomly. “I don’t regret what you went through in Afghanistan.”

Anyone else would probably flinch at Sherlock’s poor choice of wording. Would think he was being cruel. John knows him too well, “Because if I hadn’t been shot we wouldn’t have met and become partners. You would be just as alone as I was.” 

Sherlock hesitates uncharacteristically before placing his hand over John’s jacket-clad arm. His touch is firm, warm, makes John’s heart drop a little as a burst of affection for this strange man overwhelms him. 

Only Sherlock. There is no one else that he’d put up with this crap from, no other human being who can make him want to murder him one moment and hug him the next. Only Sherlock who makes John feel like maybe everything is going to be alright after all. Makes him forget his nightmares when they used to incapacitate him for days. Giggles with him at crime scenes, sends him on wild goose chases across London. 

The genius man cares enough about him to put The Work on hold and come find him instead of going to crime scene. Sherlock, who doesn’t bother comprehending basic human emotions was willing to take the time and try to understand his. 

“I used to think that being alone was the only way for one to properly protect themselves.” Sherlock grudgingly bites, for no apparent reason he seems to need to say this. “I have since learned that this conclusion was based on prematurely collected evidence and not an accurate assessment.”

John is startled and pleased, his left hand hovering over Sherlock’s right for a long beat. Then he clasps his bare hand to Sherlock’s, just for a fleeting moment. This intimacy feels comfortable, easy. John lets his head fall to Sherlock’s shoulder, taking a few deep exhales.  

John pulls away to release him and stand, not sure why he feels so reluctant to let go. 

“Well, I’m done with my strop.” John mentions, voice light and easy. “If you’re done with your sulk we have three crime scenes to get to. Shall we?”

Sherlock smiles his childish real grin that John has never seen him show for anyone besides him and Ms. Hudson. All is forgiven. It ought to be easier to stay angry with Sherlock but he can never find it in him to do so. 

“Git.” John mutters, depositing his coffee in a bin besides the bench, ready to get in his third cab of the day and interrogate crying parents.


End file.
